


Whiskey Smoke

by Caenea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cigarettes, Exhibitionism, Explicit Language, F/M, Illegal Activities, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Nudity, Public Sex, casual disregard for anti-smoking laws
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 19:25:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4973206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caenea/pseuds/Caenea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione and Charlie run into each other in a cheap, grubby bar in the back streets of London, where they ignore the smoking ban and as long as you don’t break stuff, you can do whatever you like. It’s the last place he expected to see her and he’s sure the story of why is fascinating. If only he could stop watching her roll a smoke long enough to care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey Smoke

CPOV  
  
I love this place. Not a single fuck given that they banned you from smoking inside the pub five years ago, not a single fuck given that the toilets are used for fucking more often than pissing, not a single fuck given that the clientele is shady as shit. I don’t know who the hell they’re getting away with this, but I bloody love it.

 

The air is heavy with smoke and the stench of alcohol, the noise of some unidentifiable rock band that’s loud enough to drown out whispers but quiet enough to allow for conversation. I sit in my usual spot, the darkest corner; close enough to signal the waitress to refresh the beer when I need it. This is my last night before familial reunion. The last night I get a chance to be Charlie, with dragon-hide boots, hair all over the shop and tattoos on clear display. I’m eyeing a blue-haired Muggle girl who seems interested, going by the frequency of the glances my way and the come-hither smile. Damn, I hope she won’t expect a bed for it. I’ve got no interest tonight in a gentle, sweet wooing, even if the only thing making it gentle is the fact that it’s in a bed. No. Tonight is a night for a hard, merciless, largely selfish fuck against the bathroom wall, uncaring of who sees us.

 

The door opens, closes, the momentarily created draft clearing some of the smoke from the air. Through the clarity, I see a girl approach the bar, the barman take her order. She gets two drinks. A whiskey over ice and a pint. I wonder which she’ll be drinking first. I wonder who she is. Then she moves, looking around for a seat, the frown on her face telling of a rough day – which explains the whiskey, I suppose. As she falls into the light, I recognise the wild curls, creamy skin and endless legs of Hermione Jean Granger, my baby brother’s ex-girlfriend. Hot as hell. I move, wave. She spots me, and the frown clears. She edges her way over.

                “Charlie?”

                “Hermione,” I say, smiling. I kick the chair next to mine out and she takes a seat. AS she drags it forward, her knee brushes against mine. I manage not to think about the very, very tight jeans and high heeled ankle boots she’s wearing today. “I didn’t know you came here.” I leave out that it is so far from like the Hermione I remember it might as well be a barking cat.

                “I know, I know – it’s not like me. But it’s been what, five years since we saw each other? People change, Charlie.”

                “You certainly have. You must be, what, nineteen now?” She draws a line in the condensation on her pint glass.

                “It’s my twentieth birthday today, actually.”

                “Oh. Happy birthday.”

                “Thanks. You must be twenty six?”

                “Yes, sadly.” She’s silent for a few moments, and I find time to wonder why she’s spending her birthday – or certainly the later part of it – alone in a smoky dive bar.

                “I love it here,” she says, settling back with a sigh and a smile. “I love how they don’t give a shit they banned smoking in bars, how they don’t give a shit what you do unless you break their glasses.”

                “You come here often?”

                “Every couple of weeks, maybe. When I need it, and sometimes when I don’t. Do you?”

                “Every time I’m home.”

                “We must have kept missing each other.” She picks up the whiskey tumbler, swills it a little and then knocks back the measure in one smooth motion. She gives a slight shudder at the burn, and then counters it with a drink of beer. She fumbles for a moment and extracts a metal tin from her front pocket. It has a picture – Muggle, obviously – of a leaf even I recognise, a man I do not and the words “Better to burn out rather than fade away.” I don’t ask her. She opens it, revealing tobacco, papers and filter tips. “D’you want one?” she asks, commencing rolling. I watch her for a moment, stunned by this hard-drinking, dive-bar-patron, cigarette-smoking Hermione. Five years really is a long time.

                “Sure, but I have my own,” I say. I pull the tobacco pouch and filter box out of my back pocket and start rolling. She licks along the edge of her paper with a delicate pink tongue, sealing it shut with a vicious pinch that flattens the edge. She sighs, and straightens it out. Something is definitely up. Maybe if I pour enough beer down that very lovely neck, I might get it out of her. And my God, isn’t it a lovely neck? Slim, elegant and creamy, ended in a collar-bone just showing when she tilts her head back to drink, the burgundy button down tight in all the right places. There’s just enough chest showing to be tempting yet demure. She lights the cigarette she’s holding and blows pale smoke out of her nose. She smokes regularly then – no social smoker could do that without their eyes watering. She keeps drinking the beer pretty fast, and it’s gone before I’ve finished mine. I drain the rest and out of the smoke, the waitress appears with a refill for us both. Hermione grins at her.

                “Hey, Jen. Think you could be a doll and bring me a couple more Jack on ices? Here, keep the change.” Jen does as Hermione asks, and I guess that makes her a fixture around here. Jen bends down to murmur, but I catch it.

                “I know he was a fucking cunt to you babe, but don’t drown all your problems in Jack. He isn’t worth it.”

                “I know, Jen. But one’s for this one,” she says, gesturing to me. Jen looks over.

                “He might help though; you should drown your problems in him.” Hermione laughs and shakes her head.

                “You are the worst friend.”

                “I am the best friend. Give me a wave if you want the same again.”

                “I will.” Jen drifts away and Hermione takes another pull. “Just ask, Charlie,” she says. “I know you want to.”

                “Who’s a cunt?” I ask, accepting the drink she slides over to me with her knuckles.

                “Your brother.”

                “I thought you and Ron were done?”

                “We damn well should have been,” she growled. “Sorry. He’s your brother. I shouldn’t –“

                “It helps to talk, and Ron can be a prat.”

                “It was a dumb one night thing. But he seemed to think it meant something, as opposed to being – well, being the drunken error it was. I had to be a bit – harsh to get him to get the idea. And his response was to say – well, to say that I was shit in bed anyway.” She downs her whiskey.

                “I am more than happy to beat the crap out of him for his own good.”

                “I know,” she says and reaches over with her free hand. She pats mine and takes a renewed, vicious drag. It’s gone out, and she relights. “Thanks. But anyway, that’s partly why I’m alone tonight. There was meant to be a party, but I told Harry I was working. Truth is I chickened out of it. Couldn’t face it if he turned up.”

                “Hermione, let me buy the drinks tonight.”

                “Really? You don’t need to –“

                “Consider it your birthday present,” I say, grinning at her. “Let’s get fucked up, eh?”

                “Oh, sweet Lord, yes.”

 

So we drink while the clientele revolves around us. We drink whilst we smoke and talk and laugh and I find that Hermione is clever, sweet and very funny. I find that she is bitter about her life so far and wants a change but doesn’t know what she should do about it. She’s the Golden Girl of Gryffindor; the girl who helped Harry Potter beat Voldemort, the girl who saved the world. And she is tired, jaded and bored with life. I learn that she is wonderful. I learn that she rolls like a pro. I learn that she likes this cheap dive in Muggle London because here she is just the girl who buys Jack over ice and tips well. I learn that she likes this cheap dive in Muggle London because it is so not Hermione Granger and she wants to stop it.

                “I want to lose Hermione Granger. I’m thinking about changing my name legally to Jean, and fucking off abroad.” I laugh. “I’m being serious, Charlie. I want to be something totally, utterly different. I want to do something reckless, life changing and different.” She grinds out her cigarette. “Want to fuck me in the bathroom and take me back to Romania to keep dragons?” I blink.

                “Say the first part again.”

                “Want to fuck me? In that bathroom? If you need it a little clearer, I want you to slam me up against the wall, push my jeans down and shove your cock into my cunt.” She bats her eyelashes at me. I think about it for the two seconds it takes me to drain the last inch of beer in my glass. She copies me.

                “Yes,” I say. “But I hope you realise that I will be entirely selfish, and it will be rough.”

                “Good,” she says. She pushes away her glass, takes me by the hand and pulls me to my feet. I follow her like a whipped puppy.

 

She kisses me, hot, hard and wet. I pick her up at once and slam us both against the wall. She mewls appreciatively.

                “Sure?” I ask her, gasping.

                “Goddamn you, will you please just fuck me?”

                “Yes, Granger. Patience, baby.”

                “Jean,” she gasps. “Call me Jean.”

                “Jean,” I say. “Get your trousers off for me.” She pushes them down, wrestles with my belt too. She has me out in moments. She rubs my cock twice, winks at me. I pick her up; rub a knuckle between her folds just to check. She's already soaked for me. I drive inside with no consideration for her. She gasps, grips my shoulders, pants and moves her hips as best she can whilst I hold her against a wall. I start to fuck her mercilessly. The door opens behind us, and she doesn’t pause. If anything, she just moans louder. The guy, whoever he is, does what he needs to do, encourages me with a string of slurs I barely hear and goes out. “I fucking love this damn bar,” I say, pounding her. She tightens her legs behind me.

                “I’m going to come, Charlie,” she gasps.

                “Come for me, Her – Jean,” I force the unfamiliar name out, as I keep fucking her. She’s so wet, so hot, so tight and dear God but I cannot hold on much longer.       

                “Do it quick,” I grind out.

                “I just –“ The door behind us swings open again, and a male voice cuts in.

                “Fucking excellent work, ginger. All girls should be like this slut.”

 

And she comes. She comes with a warm rush of wet, a clutch of wild heat and a shriek. I come too, pushed over the edge by the knowledge of three clear things – Hermione likes to be watched, she’s a screamer and she likes being called names. I put her down on the floor gently, and she steps back into her jeans, supremely unconcerned. I adjust myself and pull her against me.

                “I’ll take you back to Romania,” I say. “And if it lasts a week or if it lasts the rest of our goddamn lives, you are definitely, definitely not shit in the bedroom.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm drunk. Enjoy the result.


End file.
